


adiuvare

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7840576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabe just needs some help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	adiuvare

“I think--and now, hear me out, Commander--”

“What _is_ it, McCree?” Gabriel snaps, finally looking up from the--seemingly endless--stacks of paperwork scattered over his desk; it’s all equipment request and repair forms, personnel files, mission reports that need reviewing and inventory sheets for supplies he didn’t even know Blackwatch _had_. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m a little _busy_ right now.”

Busy doesn’t even begin to cover it--Morrison had wanted most of these forms filled out two weeks ago, but between all the late-night missions and cycling through the infirmary in a ruthless cycle of injury and stubborn illness, Gabriel honest to God hasn’t had the time or the energy for a shower most nights, let alone staring at paperwork for hours. 

But what’s worse is that he knows he doesn’t right now, either--knows he’s read over this same line of text four times without absorbing a word of it, misspelled his own name at the top of the form--but Morrison’s voice and, more importantly, the _disappointment_ in it, keeps the fire in his belly hot enough for him to push through.

Or at least it would--if McCree would just _go away_.

“I know--Commander. Sir. I know.” Blackwatch’s youngest member looks every bit his nineteen years, nervous in the lick of his lips and the hesitation in his voice; but he holds Gabriel’s gaze unflinchingly, and Gabriel has to commend him for that. Not many in their group can do the same. “I just...I think you need a break, sir. That’s all. It’s getting real late and we’ve all got that briefing in the morning...”

A break? No, Gabriel thinks; he knows what he needs. He needs a cigarette and a Corona--or four.

Instead, he’s got McCree standing across from his desk with his back straight and hands locked behind his back, just the way Gabriel taught him, and looking at him with those deep dark eyes, face half-shadowed by his stupid hat but still clearly worried. His expression is all open concern and it’s _sickening_ , how revealing and raw his emotions always are, how he has no second thoughts about wearing his heart on his sleeve.

It’s going to get him hurt someday, Gabriel just _knows_ it.

“Rest assured that I’m touched by your concern, McCree,” he says dryly, looking back down to the document that’s been sitting in front of him for the past ten minutes. “But I’m a grown man, and I don’t need you babysitting me. Dismissed.”

McCree frowns, sighs, lingers for a minute--just long enough to watch his Commander as he writes, and as the moment stretches on Gabe thinks that if he has to sit here and endure this awkward, lingering silence for another _second_ he’s going to grab Peacekeeper off McCree’s belt and blow his own brains out.

He’s spared his suicide by McCree piping up, “Sir. Uh…”

 _“What?_ ” Gabe doesn’t look up from the scrawl of his pen, trying to focus to make the letters stop jumping around the page. His head is aching, and he wishes he could just fall into a soft bed and sleep forever. “I told you you’re dismissed. Why are you still here?”

“...you wrote ‘Overblack’, sir, instead of Blackwatch,” Jesse says, pointing to the error on the form; Gabriel follows his fingers dumbly, then blinks and scowls, crossing out the word.

“It’s an easy mistake,” he snaps, defensive because he knows it’s not true; he glances up at McCree’s dubious look, and adds harshly, “Anyone could do that.”

The kid winces. “....yes, sir, but you did it again. Two lines down.”

Again he’s directed to the typo, and this time it’s scribbled out with fury; the lines move on the page like worms and Gabriel decides that’s it, he’s done, he knows when he’s beat and he’s not stupid enough to wage a fight with his own body. He tosses the pen aside and stands, blinking away the sudden dizziness that washes over him, threatens to knock him off his feet, and startles at the squeeze of hands to his shoulders.

It’s McCree--the kid looks more shocked by his actions than Gabriel is, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he moves his grip down, settling lightly--supportively--over the curving swells of Gabriel’s thick biceps.

“Let me help you to your bunk,” McCree offers, his voice soft like Jack’s used to be, and Gabriel will forever blame his utter exhaustion for the way he slowly, dumbly, nods. They walk to the bunk set up in the corner of the room slowly, like a pair of drunk idiots, Gabriel still favoring the ankle he’d nearly broken in battle earlier and McCree supporting the extra weight reliably, ever steadfast, one arm around Gabe’s waist and the other hand still laid over his commander’s shoulder.

By the time they reach the bunk Gabriel is sweating, and it’s not entirely from exertion.

He pushes McCree away to fall more than sit on the side of his berth, reaches down to untie his boots; his fingers slip over the laces, shaking minutely with his fatigue, and before Gabriel can say a word McCree has slid down to his knees in front of him, hands steadying as they run down Gabriel’s calf.

It’s almost suggestive--could be inappropriate. Is probably opening a whole can of worms.

“Commander,” McCree says, and Gabe stares down at him silently and finds himself wondering what it would be like to kiss the word from the kid’s lips--if it would hold the bitterness that lingers from Jack, or taste sweet like the smoke from McCree’s cigars. “Let me help you.”

Help he does; Gabriel’s boots are off in moments, and before he can say anything McCree just keeps going, pulling off Gabriel’s socks and reaching for his shirt. He deftly works over the fasteners of the body armor, letting it slide to the floor while his fingers start on the row of buttons, pulling each one free, his fingers rough as they--almost accidentally--brush over the warm bronze skin revealed to him. Gabriel lets McCree push the fatigue top off him, over his powerful shoulders and down the stretch of his arms, and if his hands linger a little bit too long over Gabriel’s hands to be strictly comradely he doesn’t bother to notice.

What he does notice is the slight gleam in McCree’s eyes, the faint flush of color high up on his cheeks; Gabriel lays back in his bunk, sighing quietly at the relief it brings his battered body, a for a moment he’s so caught up in how _not bad_ he feels that he doesn’t even think of McCree.

But then he hears the spurs jingling, the quiet thud of boots retreating; Gabriel opens his eyes, barks out, “McCree!”

The boy halts a few steps away, looks over his shoulder; Gabriel feels his mouth go dry, his heart speed up as he says, with finality, “Stay. With me.”

“...Yes, sir.” Jesse’s smile is something warm and full of a promise Gabriel doesn’t have the energy to decipher. “If it’ll help you.”


End file.
